A Good Country

by Laleh Khadivi

  This ocean is amazing.

  She looked at him and smiled. And then laughed a little. And then she laughed a lot.

  What?

  Nothing.

  She laughed more.

  He had never heard her laugh like this. Or do anything bubbly and girlish. He’d known Fatima since seventh grade; she’d always been serious about everything—grades, her opinions, even getting high—and now she was relaxed, almost silly.

  I just can’t believe it. That’s all. I mean, this morning I had no idea you were going to show up at my door and tell me you wanted to embrace Islam. Like, what?! … It makes me happy, but, come on, it’s a little wild, admit it, Rez, a little crazy.

  Reza, he corrected her.

  Reza, she repeated, and tried not to laugh but started giggling anyway. I mean, Rez Courdee. All-American. Never said a nice thing to a Muslim kid, never recognized his parents were Iranians. Nothing. And now. Now?! Wants to become a Muslim and marry me? If I say it out loud, even if I think about it too much, it sounds crazy. I am not going to think about it.

  She took a dramatic breath and got very still, stared out at the sea and got even more still. Rez watched her, worried she would get serious again, get serious and change her mind. Nothing happened for a long time; five and then more minutes went by and he was about to say something and saw she was crying.

  Hey. Don’t do that. This is all good, right? I want to change my life to be a good Muslim man, a good man in the world and a good husband to you.

  I know. It’s just weird. Really fast.

  It was hard already and Rez hadn’t even gotten to the hard part.

  What if we left?

  And go where?

  I dunno. Away. Would that make it easier?

  In her stillness he felt her listening.

  There is a place for us, in Raqqah, if we want it. An apartment. Jobs. A good life. You are Syrian. It will be like a homecoming. I have already started talking to people.

  Raqqah? Syria? In the middle of a war? That’s not funny. You are crazy! All my family is trying to leave Syria and you want to go there?

  I think some good things are going to happen when the fighting stops. I’ve been talking to people who say a new country is being built there. A fair place for Muslims to live …

  And I’ve heard about that group in Raqqah. It’s not the Islam I know … it is an interpretation, an old Islam and it can be very violent. Very bloody. Why are you even talking about it? This is stupid. You’re nervous about college and this is your freak-out.

  Rez looked toward the beach. Beyond the first spread of families and picnics, a group of boys took turns with a dragon kite. The tails were many and the nose kept diving down toward the sand until the last minute, when some wind or fast maneuver lifted it back into the sky. He couldn’t tell if it was an accident or a trick of skill that got the kite up and flying again.

  You know all this is bloody and violent too?

  She looked up at the beach.

  All what?

  These kids, all these families, having fun, driving cars, living in big houses, watching stupid sports games, voting for war in the Middle East every chance they get? How much violence do you think it takes to keep this all so pretty?

  He stared at the ocean because he didn’t want her face to fuck with his thoughts, with his anger and determination and need.

  At least in Raqqah the violence is on the surface. And temporary. At least there we can have a life devoted to something other than lies.

  The afternoon light glowed more golden, the laughter of children braided in with the hush and hush of waves. Rez forced himself to see through the beauty of this paradise he’d believed in his whole life. He forced himself to think of pictures of Afghanistan, Abu Ghraib. The bombed-out apartments of Baghdad. Kelly and his maimed brother and their constant threats. The assholes who tried to fight him at the beach.

  Arash is there. I talked to him. He invited us. Wants us to join him.

  She stayed quiet.

  Arash would never do anything on the wrong side, would never match himself with people involved in bad shit. You know that. You’ve known him your whole life, he’s too good for that.

  They heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden planks of the gazebo and they turned to find an elderly couple, hands clasped, walking toward the railing. They both wore pressed collared shirts and slacks and white rubber-soled shoes and when they got to the view spot the man took the woman by her shoulders, drew her body close, and kissed her lips. It looked dry and chaste but the woman blushed, her skin flush with color, and the man smiled at her and kissed the top of her forehead and then turned to Rez and Fatima.

  Our sixtieth wedding anniversary today! Can you believe it? Sixty years ago I married this woman after proposing to her on that exact same bench. We were probably even your age. Eighteen, nineteen. Made the decision before we knew too much, before we became different people. Best decision of my life. Good times. Good time. Don’t you waste this time.

  The man smiled as he spoke and joy shone from the pockets of his old face.

  36

  There was no fast Yes. No easy I do. She asked to see what he saw. Read what he read. Go to the websites that made him think goodness lay at the bottom of the evil.

  With some pride Rez introduced her to Daoud in the chat room, quick to mention their engagement and plans to marry.

  In Raqqah, God willing. Where the young married couples are blessed. Please direct her to a site run by our sisters. They will give her guidance as to our interpretations and organize the details of her preparation. I will e-mail the address and encryption code.

  Rez looked at Fatima to see if she agreed, if it was going to work. She stared at the screen and then at her lap and then at the screen again. A message popped up from Daoud.

  The truest unions are under Allah’s gaze.

  Fatima went down another hole. Even though they went to the library together and sat side-by-side at the public computers, they drifted away into separate worlds, typing, reading, thinking, typing. After a few hours they’d leave and go to the halal deli in Newport to eat and talk and think.

  They told me to stop wearing the hijab.

  They told me not to grow a beard. To keep my hair short. Not to convert until I was there.

  If I take off the hijab, my parents will think it’s strange. They’ll know something’s up.

  A few days she skipped the library to stay home, with her mom and grandmother, or to go to the mosque by herself. Rez tried not to worry when this happened, tried not to text her every five minutes and ask if she was ok; if she was against the idea of the trip; if she still loved him. On these empty afternoons he rode the bus down Highway 1, getting on and off whenever he felt like it or at the beach if it looked nice. He sat on the sand and stared at the sea, the bodies of the people, the sand itself, and when he felt better, he’d get back on the bus and ride a ways until he had to do it again. By the time he got home he felt almost ok with the idea that bothered him most: that she might bail and he might have to go it alone.

  Two days before they were supposed to leave to take the train north she texted: walk? And he said sure and they went down to the San Clemente pier. She wore a bright yellow head scarf and held his hand.

  Ok. I am good to go.

  Really?

  Yes. Really.

  Rez tried to pretend he wasn’t as happy as he was and kept his eyes ahead of him.

  You are sure? What did it?

  Positive. Last night my mom and I got our nails done and I asked her about getting married, in passing, you know, casual, like when I should do it and if I had someone in mind did I bring it up now or wait. And she looked at me and laughed like I was crazy and told me I had no choice and when the time came they were going to pick a husband for me. They thought it would be later, after college, maybe after grad school, but ever since I got interested in Islam my dad’s been asking around.

  Rez felt his brain swim around i
n his skull, banging against the possibilities. His breath caught and he wanted to stay cool. He looked away from her, out to sea.

  What did you say?

  I said Ok, mom. And now I am saying Ok, Reza. Let’s go.

  Daoud helped him out. They kept in touch nearly all the time, through one of many accounts, Facebook, WhatsApp, Twitter, Instagram. Rez wondered if Daoud ever slept. Rez could reach him at any hour and never asked where he lived, but now and again Daoud offered stories and still seemed amazed at the turns his own life had taken to get to Allah.

  Most of the time they hung out in the virtual space and talked about Rez’s travel plans, how he and Fatima were to move about, whom they were to meet and how best to cross the border into Syria. Daoud asked him repeatedly about money, and Rez explained that his parents were to fill his checking account every semester to cover the costs of living at college. And they won’t notice if you withdraw it all at once? Rez said no, though he wasn’t completely sure.

  Daoud gave precise instructions on how Rez was to act. On your flight from LAX to Istanbul, order drinks, sit next to Fatima, be happy. When you get into the city, stay in Taksim, go to clubs, go to bars, don’t drink, but be there. Act like a young American tourist. Make sure Fatima does not wear the hijab. On the second day I will arrange for you to meet the smuggler in charge of taking you over the border. He will speak English and look Western. You will follow his instructions from there. Whatever you do in your few days, don’t act suspicious and, inshallah, doors will open all the way to Raqqah.

  Like a movie. When he thought about it that way, the coming days terrified him. In the movies guys like Rez always died. When he thought about it as his life, as answering the call of a higher power, as making a choice, he relaxed enough to catch the thrill of it, the covert steps, the disguise of his old self, the company of Fatima as his girlfriend, the secret of her as his wife. The adventure and love and belief and deception mixed into a heady potion and Rez spent hours, alone, drunk on the possibilities and always came back to Daoud’s words: Act normal, act regular, don’t let your parents, your friends, suspect anything. All deceptions will be forgiven.

  Rez considered himself from the outside. Rich kid. Freshman at Berkeley. A girlfriend at Stanford. Good little immigrant. Off on a nice start to the American dream: behave and you will earn, earn and you will have a place. He imagined the final scene, the good-bye at the San Juan Capistrano train station, two kids going to college. Proud parents. Maybe some crying. Hugs. They had behaved and now the next door opened to them. He remembered the words of the agent who interrogated him at LAX: And your people, who think they are worth a great deal, know that even after making all that money, they are worthless. Their children are worthless, and if this violence continues, their children’s children will be worthless too. Does that sound familiar?

  This is how the mind comes to understand the future, by imagination. Rez let his thoughts linger and speed depending on his mood but he could not control the way he felt, brave, renegade, righteous. A single man in control of his fate against the forces that would forever keep him low and scared. And of course the fantasies: Fatima in the hostel room, in the one bed, her body and hair and mouth available to him. He had not mentioned it, not brought it up even as a joke, and practiced his new prayers through these grips of desire. He had only a few Arabic phrases to string together and the rest he had to say in English. Either way, after a while, it always worked.

  37

  From outside he was the same old Rez. He ate dinner with his parents every night, spent the afternoons packing the small shipment to his dorm room and convincing his mother again and again it was a good idea he go up alone.

  I just want to have the experience.

  You don’t want your parents to embarrass you in front of your new friends. You want to pretend you don’t have parents.

  Even as she tried to joke, sadness leaked through her voice. Rez tried to be annoyed that his mom was worried when in truth he worked hard not to let her quivers shake him too. They organized stacks of sweatshirts and books and toiletries and a few framed photos of them as a family. From his desk drawer she pulled out the black-and-white photo of the uniformed man.

  Where did you find this?

  In the garage.

  Do you know who it is?

  Family? Dad’s family?

  Your grandfather, your dad’s dad.

  She looked at the picture and then put it back in the desk.

  A complicated man. A lot of conflict in his soul. Not happy. Not well.

  38

  Stay the same.

  Daoud’s words scrolled through Rez’s head when Matthews texted him.

  Rager at my house tonight. One last blast.

  Rez responded without thought.

  Act normal. Daoud reminded Rez and Fatima it might be hard to keep up their old selves as the departure day came close. But it is more than important. Any suspicion at this point and you will not be able to leave the country, you will be seen as a suspect and arrested.

  They went together and Rez had to stop himself from saying something about Fatima’s loose hair, some compliment or evidence of his arousal. They spent most of their time on the dance floor. Matthews had cleared out all of the furniture from the pool house, and the small room with the bar and kitchen was perfect for crowding with bodies. The lights were off and the windows looking out onto the pool had steamed up and Rez lost himself to the music, old hip-hop, new hip-hop, by Drake and a million different remixes. Some old-school Madonna and Beyoncé and everyone in the room went from being eighteen-year-olds to being twelve-year-olds to seven-year-olds and back again, each song belonging to an age they had all shared.

  Rez danced around and next to Fatima and each time he thought, I am dancing with my wife, he felt himself get stiff. She sensed it and teased him, moving her hips and hands against the hard-on and laughing. Eventually he left her alone to go get some water and cool down.

  When he found her again, she was outside talking to Matthews. They both had their shoes off and shins in the pool. Matthews had on an OBEY T-shirt with a block print of André the Giant on it. On his head he wore an extra-large baseball hat that said WORLD’S GREATEST DAD and held beer cans, one over each ear. Rez laughed to himself and then took off all his clothes and did a cannonball just in front of where the two were sitting. When he popped his head up, his friend and his future wife laughed and yelled at him and he swam to the edge and kissed Fatima’s foot. She gave him a look he couldn’t read.

  Nice party, man.

  Yeah. That pool house dance party is going to go down in the books. Can you at least agree with me about that, Fatima?

  She tried to smile. She and Matthews had been in the middle of something, maybe an argument. Rez saw a serious look in her eyes and the way Matthews was quick with the jokes.

  Just a little friendly religious discussion in the middle of a huge party. You know how I roll.

  Rez wished he hadn’t jumped in the pool. He wanted to be dry and ready to leave.

  About what?

  Matthews took a long sip from one of the straws that came down from the beer can and hung beside his face.

  All I am trying to tell her is that I can’t choose one God. Why do I have to? So my parents are Catholics, sort of, doesn’t mean I have to be Catholic. I’m too young to be anything. I’m just a guy figuring stuff out, and when I’ve lived enough, I can decide what I believe.

  Yes, but how do you know who you are? How to behave? Fatima asked, the calm in her voice bordering on sadness.

  I follow the Golden Rule. I am a nice guy. I don’t do shitty things to people. I keep it chill. And I am not in a rush to pick a God for the rest of my life. Who knows how long we will live? Just think about it. When we were born, there was no Internet. Now we can’t do anything without it. Maybe tomorrow or twenty years from now, half of us will be living on Mars, and then what is God? All I am saying is no one knows about tomorrow’s gods. Not me. Not you. No
ne of us. And I choose not to go backwards, forget the old gods, let’s wait and see what comes next.

  Matthews looked at Rez with his eyebrows up and an unlit joint he’d just pulled out of his pocket, like a man who’d just won an inconsequential debate, like a joker, like a good soul in love with life. Rez gave his friend one last fist bump and was glad he had to pick up his clothes; he had a reason to look at the ground and keep his eyes to himself as his heart tore and tore and tore.

  39

  Bricks. That’s rare. No one builds with bricks in California because of the earthquakes. Maybe this station was built before the earthquakes, or before they knew that bricks didn’t stand up in shakes. Yet this still stands. Maybe there is a sign. Yeah, over there, a historical plaque. Plaque is such a great word. Smack lack quack tack. Yup. I was right. Built in 1915 under the watch of the U.S. Western Railway expansion. Mentions nothing about the Chinese slaves that built the railways. That’s the way. And then there is the mud-and-straw stucco of the mission. Mission of San Juan Capistrano. Who was Capistrano anyway? Maybe there is another plaque. Yup. Named for Giovanni da Capestrano, a warrior priest from the fifteenth century. Maybe that’s who will be in Raqqah, warrior priests … Oldest building in California. No mention of all the dead Indians. All the Native people who lived here before the Spanish. Might as well not have existed. Ok. Something else, something else. That family waiting for a train. What else? Weather is nice. Sunny, not too hot, though it is early. I wonder what the surf is doing? We’re so close to Doheny … not enough time … could text Matthews and ask …

  And this is what Rez did with his mind while he and his mom and dad waited for Fatima and her family to arrive at the train station. He did all he could not to think about the good-byes. Real good-byes for a fake trip. Or maybe the good-byes were fake and the trip was real. Or maybe they were both fake. Or both real. Either way. Either way. Rez tried to make his head fall down the rabbit hole of these digressions, loop endlessly from one unstructured thought to the next, but he was unable. The light of the sun was warm and the day bright and his father gestured to him to come inside the train station.